I do not like Liverpool as a city; and less do I admire a majority of
its citizens. Too many of them are striving to live on what they can
obtain from transient sojourners. Being the greatest shipping port in
the United Kingdom--and that from which most emigrants take their
departure--it affords its inhabitants too easy opportunities for
exercising their skill--in obtaining the greatest amount of money for
the least amount of service--opportunities of which many of them are not
slow to avail themselves.
My dislike to the people of Liverpool may perhaps, arise from the fact
that I claim to be a sailor; and that thousands of people in that great
seaport--from beggars, thieves, and the like who crowd its crooked,
narrow, dirty streets in search of a living, up to merchants, agents,
and ship-owners--imagine that there is no harm in taking advantage of a
sailor, and, under this belief, seldom lose an opportunity of doing so.
The first thing I did after arriving in this precious seaport, was to
possess myself of a city directory, and make a list of all the saddle
and harness-makers in the place--putting down the address of each
opposite his name.
I then wrote a note to each of them--requesting, that if they knew
anything of a journeyman saddler named Matthew Leary, they would have
the goodness to communicate with me; if not, no answer to my note would
be required.
Having completed this interesting correspondence--which occupied me the
whole of a day--I repaired to the residence of Mrs Hyland. There had
been no change there. I found her still living in the same house, where
years before, I had parted with her and her daughter.
I was conducted into the drawing-room; and the next instant one of the
most beautiful creatures man ever beheld, stood before me.
Lenore was beautiful when a child; and time had only developed her young
charms into the perfection of feminine loveliness. To me, her beauty
transcended everything I had ever seen; although I had been in Dublin,
New Orleans, and Mexico--three places which are not the least favoured
with the light of woman's loveliness.
Lenore was now sixteen years of age, and looked neither more nor less.
The only description I can give of her is that there was nothing
remarkable about her, but her beauty. I can give no particulars of how
she appeared. If asked the colour of her hair and eyes, I should have
been unable to tell; I only knew that she was beautiful.
I was painfully disappointed at the reception she gave me. She did not
meet me with those manifestations of friendship I had anticipated. It
was true that I had been a long time away; and her friendship towards me
might have become cooled by my protracted absence. But this was a
painful consideration. I endeavoured to dismiss it--at the same time I
strove to awaken within her the memories of our old companionship.
To my chagrin, I saw that I was unsuccessful. She seemed to labour
under some exciting emotion; and I could not help fancying that it was
of a painful character.
Her whole behaviour was a mystery to me, because so different from what
it had formerly been, or what I had hoped to find it.
I had left Lenore when she was but little more than a child, and she was
now a young lady.
In the three years that had intervened, there was reason for me to
expect some change in her character. With her mother, no change I
presumed could have taken place. I left Mrs Hyland a woman; and such I
should find her, only three years older. In her I expected to meet a
friend, as I had left her. She entered the room. I was again doomed to
disappointment!
She received me with even more coldness than had been exhibited by
Lenore. She did not even offer me her hand; but took a seat, and with a
more unpleasant expression than I had ever before observed on her face,
she waited apparently with impatience for what I might have to say.
The sensitive feelings of my soul had never been so cruelly wounded. I
was in an agony of anger and disappointment; and unable any longer to
endure the painful excitement of my emotions, I uttered a few
common-place speeches, and hastily withdrew from their presence.
What could their conduct mean? In the excited state of my thoughts, I
was unable to form even a conjecture, that seemed in any way consistent
with my knowledge of their previous character.
It might be that when Lenore was a child, and I was a boy, they had seen
no harm in befriending and being kind to me; but now that Lenore was a
young lady, and I a man--a sailor, too--they might have reasons for not
having any further acquaintance with me.
Could it be that they were endued with that selfishness--in this world
possessed by so many? That they had been my friends only because
Captain Hyland was my protector--to fall away from me now, that his
protection could be no longer extended to me?
I could hardly think this possible: for it would be so much out of
keeping with all that I had ever known of the character either of Mrs
Hyland or her daughter.
I had long anticipated great pleasure in revisiting them; and had
thought when again in their presence I should be with friends. Never
had I been so cruelly disappointed; and for awhile I fancied that I
should never care to meet with old acquaintances again.
I am capable of forming strong attachments. I had done so for Mrs
Hyland and her daughter, and their chill reception had the effect of
causing me to pass a sleepless night.
In the morning, I was able to reflect with a little more coolness, as
well as clearness. A cause, perhaps _the_ cause, of their strange
conduct suddenly suggested itself to my mind.
Adkins, the first mate of the ship Lenore, had been, and, no doubt,
still was--my enemy. He had turned me out of the ship in New Orleans;
and had, in all likelihood, on his arrival in Liverpool, poisoned the
mind of Mrs Hyland, by some falsehood, of which I was the victim. I
knew the scoundrel to be capable of doing this, or any other base
action.
There was a consolation in the thought that this explanation might be
the real one, and for a while it restored the tranquillity of my spirit.
I would see them again, demand an explanation; and if my suspicions
proved true, I could refute any change made against me--so as once more
to make them my friends.
I did not desire their friendship from any personal motives. It might
not now be worth the trouble of having it restored; but in memory of
their past kindness, and out of regard for my own character, I could not
leave them labouring under the impression that I had been ungrateful.
Alas! there was a deeper motive for my desiring an explanation. Their
friendship was worth restoring. It was of no use my endeavouring to
think otherwise. The friendship of a beautiful creature like Lenore was
worth every thing. The world to me would be worthless without it. I
was already wretched at the thought of having lost her good opinion. I
must again establish myself in it, or failing, become more wretched
still.
The next day, I returned to the residence of Mrs Hyland. I saw her
seated near the window, as I approached the house. I saw her arise, and
retire out of sight--evidently after recognising me!
I rang the bell. The door was opened by a servant--who, without waiting
to be interrogated, informed me that neither Mrs nor Miss Hyland were
at home!
I pushed the door open, passed the astonished domestic, entered the
hall; and stepped unceremoniously into the apartment--in the window of
which I had seen Mrs Hyland.
No one was inside--excepting the servant, who had officially followed
me. I turned to her, and said in a tone savouring of command:
"Tell Mrs Hyland that Mr Rowland Stone is here, and will not leave
until he has seen her."
The girl retired, and soon after Mrs Hyland entered the room. She did
not speak; but waited to hear what I had to say.
"Mrs Hyland," I began, "I am too well acquainted with you, and respect
you too much, to believe that I am treated in the manner I have been,
without a good cause. Conscious of having done nothing intentionally to
injure you, or yours, I have returned to demand the reason why your
conduct towards me has undergone such a change. You once used to
receive me here as though I was your own son. What have I done to
forfeit your friendship?"
"If your own conscience does not accuse you," she answered, "it is not
necessary for me to give you any explanation, for you might not
understand it. But there is one thing that I hope you _will_
understand: and that is, that your visits here are no longer either
welcome or desirable."
"I learnt that much yesterday," said I, imitating in a slight degree the
air of sneering indifference, in which Mrs Hyland addressed me.
"To-day I have called for an explanation. Your own words imply that I
was once welcome; and I wish to know why such is no longer the case."
"The explanation is then, that you have proved unworthy of our
friendship. There is no explanation that _you_ can give, that will
remove the impression from my mind that you have been guilty of
ingratitude and dishonesty towards those who were your best friends; and
I do not wish to be pained by listening to any attempt you may make at
an apology."
I became excited. Had the speaker been a man, my excitement would have
assumed the shape of anger.
"I only ask," I replied, endeavouring, as much as possible, to control
my feelings, "I only ask, what justice to you, as well as myself,
demands you to give. All I require is an explanation; and I will not
leave the house, until I have had it. I insist upon knowing of what I
am accused."
Mrs Hyland, apparently in high displeasure at the tone I had assumed,
turned suddenly away from me, and glided out of the room.
To calm my excitement, I took up a paper, and read, or attempted to
read.
For nearly half an hour I continued this half involuntary occupation.
At the end of that time, I stepped up to the fire-place, caught hold of
the bell pull, and rang the bell.
"Tell Miss Lenore," said I, when the servant made her appearance, "that
I wish to see her; and that all the policemen in Liverpool cannot put me
out of this house, until I have done so."
The girl flounced back through the door; and shortly after Lenore, with
half of a smile on her beautiful face, entered the room.
She appeared less reserved than on the interview of the day before; and,
if possible, more lovely. I was too happy to interpret from her
deportment, that she had not yet entirely forgotten the past; and that
what I now wished to know, she would not hesitate to reveal.
"Lenore," said I, as she entered, "in you I hope still to find a
friend--notwithstanding the coldness with which you have treated me; and
from you I demand an explanation."
"The only explanation I can give," said she, "is, that mamma and I have
probably been deceived. There is one who has accused you of
ingratitude, and other crimes as bad--perhaps worse."
"Adkins!" I exclaimed. "It is Adkins, the first mate of the `Lenore!'"
"Yes, it is he who has brought the accusation; and, unfortunately,
whether false or no, your conduct has been some evidence of the truth of
the story he has told us. Oh! Rowland, it was hard to believe you
guilty of ingratitude and crime; but your long absence, unexplained as
it was, gave colour to what has been alleged against you. You have
never written to us: and it will be nearly impossible for you to be
again reinstated in the good opinion of my mother."
"In yours, Lenore?"
She blushingly held down her head, without making reply.
"Will you tell me of what I am accused?" I asked.
"I will," she answered. "And, Rowland, before I hear one word of
explanation from you learn this; I cannot believe you guilty of any
wrong. I have been too well acquainted with you to believe that you
could possibly act, under any circumstances, as you have been accused of
doing. It is not in your nature."
"Thank you, Lenore!" said I, with a fervour I could not restrain myself
from showing. "You are now as you have ever been, more beautiful than
anything in the world, and wise as you are beautiful."
"Do not talk thus, Rowland! Nothing but your own words can ever change
the opinion I had formed of your character--long ago, when we were both
children. I will tell you why my mother is displeased with you. There
are more reasons than one. First, when my father died in New Orleans,
Mr Adkins brought back the ship; and you did not return in it. We were
surprised at this; and called Mr Adkins to account for not bringing you
home. He did not appear willing to give us any satisfaction concerning
you; but we would insist on having it; and then, with apparent
reluctance, he stated that he had not wished to say anything against
you--fearing that from our known friendship for you, it might be
unpleasant for us to hear it. He then told us, that you had not only
neglected, and proved cruel to my father--when on his death-bed--but,
that, as soon as it became certain there was no hope of his recovery,
you behaved as though you thought it no longer worth while to trouble
yourself with a man, who could not live to repay you. He said that you
had previously deserted from the ship, and left my father--
notwithstanding his earnest entreaties that you should remain with him.
It cannot be true. I know it cannot be true; but so long as my mother
thinks there is a particle of truth in Mr Adkins' statement, she will
never forgive you. Your accuser has also stated that when you left the
ship, you took with you what was not your own; but this he did not tell
us until several months had elapsed, and there appeared no probability
of your returning."
"What has become of Mr Adkins now?" I asked.
"He is on a voyage to New Orleans in the `Lenore.' He obtained my
mother's confidence, and is now in command of the ship. Lately he has
been trying to make himself more disagreeable to myself--by professing
for me--what he, perhaps, believes to be an affection. Oh! it is too
unpleasant to dwell upon. My mother listens, I fear, too consentingly,
to all he has to say: for she is grateful to him for his kindness to my
father before he died--and for the interest he appears ever since to
have taken in our welfare. His manner towards us has greatly changed of
late. Indeed, he acts as if he were the head of our family, and the
owner of the vessel. I believe he is expected to return to Liverpool at
any time: as the time for the voyage has expired, and the ship has been
due for some days."
"I wish he were in Liverpool _now_" said I. "When he does arrive, I
will make him prove himself a liar. Lenore! I have ever been treated
with the greatest kindness by your father and mother. It is not in my
nature to be either ungrateful or dishonest. Your father's ship was my
home, I did not leave that home without good reason. I was turned out
of it by the very villain who has accused me. I shall stay in Liverpool
until he returns; and when I have exposed him, and proved myself still
worthy of your friendship, I shall again go forth upon the world with a
light heart, as I can with a clear conscience."
Requesting Lenore to tell her mother that she had been deceived--and
that I should stay in Liverpool till I proved that such was the case--I
arose to take my departure. I lingered only to add: that I would not
again annoy them with my presence until the return of the ship--when I
should challenge Adkins to appear before them, and prove him guilty of
the very crimes he had charged against myself--ingratitude and
dishonesty.
With this promise did I close my interview with Lenore.
Volume One, Chapter XI.